His dark spice scent wove around me like smoke, his lips cool against my skin, a certain part of him pressing hard against my arse. Damn, it wasn’t just the blood-sucker in him that was excited. Though to be honest, blood and sex are two sides of the same coin with vamps.
‘You didn’t expect anything before.’ I kept my voice quiet and calm.
‘Before you had not admitted yourself such,’ he said. ‘In writing.’
It took me a couple of seconds, then . . . Crap. I had. Last Hallowe’en. As part of my ‘blackmail’, I’d given another letter to the witches. It had been the carrot to go with my stick. That letter gave Malik dispensation for any unspecified crimes he may or may not have committed (so long as he had Hugh’s agreement) against any witch, past, present and future, in exchange for his property – a.k.a. me/my blood – used in a spell. My ‘admission’ seemed to have changed something. Leaving me vulnerable. My pulse sped faster.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, keeping my annoyance at myself out of my voice. ‘In hindsight that was a stupid idea.’ For me, anyway.
He didn’t react. Not an indrawn breath or a muscle moved. He’d shut down. His lungs not working, his heart not beating. Which was a sign, hopefully, that he was getting himself under control. I had an urge to swallow. I stifled it. Waiting. Hardly breathing myself. Then after a long drawn-out silence, I opened my mouth to apologise again.
‘Shh.’ He stopped me. ‘I am not fully myself. I need—’ He broke off. ‘It may aid me if you would calm your pulse. I find my thirst for you is greater than I anticipated.’
At the self-disgust in his voice, a suspicion slithered into my mind like one of Asclepius’ snakes. Maybe this wasn’t his game, but someone else’s. Like the Autarch’s. He had to be the one who’d branded Malik; no one else would have the power.
Angry resolve, rather than the usual panic, filled me. I concentrated on counting, slowing my pulse.
What felt like aeons later, Malik’s grip on my hair lessened, allowing me to lower my chin a few millimetres, and ease the painfully stretched tendons in my neck. My gaze caught on our reflection in the windows in front of us. Malik was fully vamped out— pupils flaring red with flame, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, canines and needle-thin venom fangs white and sharp. The brand on his forehead now pulsed dirty silver in my sight.
My stunned eyes met his grim ones in the glass. ‘It’s doing something to you. If I remove the spell, will it stop it?’
‘It marks me as his. As the Ancient Greeks used to mark their slaves.’
Bastard Autarch. ‘You’re not Greek,’ I said flatly. ‘And neither is he. And I don’t get how that’s even relevant.’
‘You are right. We are not Greek. But the symbol is understood by those who need to see it. I am Oligarch, but all know that I took the position without his knowledge or permission. He has asserted his authority. It is necessary to maintain the status quo.’
Great. This was some sort of political vamp crap. ‘So keep the brand,’ I said. ‘What about the spell?’
‘The spell?’
‘Vamps can’t see magic. So what’s the point?’
His hand spasmed, tightening his hold on my hair. ‘It is for his personal entertainment.’
Sadistic psycho. ‘What’s it doing to you?’
He was silent, a dark weight at my back.
‘C’mon, Malik. It’s doing something, or he’s doing something through it. You’re not usually so volatile.’
‘Volatile?’ He yanked my head back again. ‘Volatile is for the undisciplined, Genevieve.’
‘If you keep doing that,’ I croaked, ‘you’re going to break my neck. I’d be happier not wearing a brace for however long it takes to heal.’
‘My apologies.’ His voice was contrite.
‘Okay,’ I said slowly, trying to think of an out. ‘So we’ve both said we’re sorry. How about you let me go and we’ll talk about it?’
‘I find myself unable to do that. It is taking all of my . . . discipline to hold you like this and not feed.’
Right. Well, maybe taking my blood would help. After all, what was a drink between friends? And Malik was my friend, despite the current stand-off. ‘So feed,’ I said.
‘No. I am too . . . volatile.’
Underneath his attempt at dry amusement, I could taste his fear, like bitter aloes mixed with rancid blood. Fear of losing control, and of hurting me. Not that I wanted either of those things to happen either, but hey, the other options – standing here until inevitably the sun came up or his disciplined restraint gave way – weren’t cutting it either.
‘Look,’ I said, frustration making me sharp, ‘I haven’t donated yet so I’ve got plenty of blood.’ My usual donation was a pint into a blood-bag; a daily necessity thanks to the 3V infection turbo-boosting my red cell production. But hey, Malik could probably take a good three, even four pints before things got too iffy. ‘If you get too carried away then you can heal me. And, I’m not human, remember. There’s no way you can pass your curse on to me, if that’s worrying you.’
‘It is a tempting offer, Genevieve. Thank you. But no.’
Stubborn vamp. Sometimes his phobia about his curse made him even more paranoid than me. ‘So what’s the plan, then?’
‘The plan?’
‘Yes. The plan to get out of this.’
There was a long silence. ‘I find it impossible to marshal my thoughts.’ The confusion in his voice was raw, as if he’d suddenly woken in a frightening place. ‘I do not have any plan.’
I’d have sighed, if his arm around me had let me take a deep breath. Not working out what needed to happen next wasn’t like him. Had to be an effect of whatever the Autarch’s spell was doing to mess with Malik’s mind.
Well, I had an easy way to sort that, whether he wanted me to or not. Except I’d left my turkey baster down in the square; not that I thought Malik, or rather the Autarch controlling Malik, would let me take the turkey baster to his forehead. I choked back the slightly hysterical laughter at the image that thought conjured.
Next option was absorbing the spell; definitely not a good idea with who knew what side-effects the magic would sic me with. Much better to get rid of the spell totally, which meant I’d have to crack it. Preferably not while it was on Malik. He’d heal the smashed-watermelon effect it would have on his skull, but I needed to talk to him tonight, not in three or five or however many weeks’ time. So I needed to call the spell off of him and tag it to something else first. Something I could destroy without too much damage.
I stared up at the painted ceiling and visualised what the room contained. There wasn’t much to choose from. Windows, pillars, paintings, stacked chairs, tables and . . . Got it!
I focused on the spell. Or at least I tried to, but the damn thing kept slipping away from me as if I was trying to hold water in a sieve. I needed to physically touch it.
‘Um, any chance we can change positions here?’ I asked. ‘Like, face each other?’
‘Why?’
‘This isn’t exactly comfortable.’
‘I do not think a change of position is wise.’
Because he wanted to sink his fangs into me. And going by the way a certain part of his body was still pressing into my back, he wanted to sink something else into me too . . . Which might be enough to distract him from the bloodsucking bit.
Recalling the image he’d flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him, I closed my eyes, took a moment to get my thoughts in order, then, hoping the visual communication went two ways, started sending mental pictures.
A shudder travelled through him. ‘What are you doing, Genevieve?’
Giving you ideas, hopefully.
His arm around me loosened slightly.
Yes! I sent more images to his mind—
His hand plunged into the V of my shirt, yanking it open violently enough that I saw a button hit the ceiling above us. He shoved my shirt aside, roughly cupping my lace-covered breasts. I moaned loudly
, pushing back and wiggling encouragingly against his thick length. He growled, driving his hips into me as he ripped away my bra, knuckles grazing my nipples. They tightened in response, then I bit back a scream as he pulled on one, rolling the sensitive point between his demanding fingers, the pain/pleasure arrowing straight to my core. Liquid heat filled me making me wish that this was for real.
Reluctantly, I reminded myself it wasn’t. This wasn’t about my fantasies, but about distracting Malik to get at that spell.
As his hand continued to map my body, making me yearn for more, I forced aside the distraction, letting my magic rise as I sent more images. He obliged, feverishly tearing the zipper on my trousers, shoving them down my hips so they pooled around my ankles. I kicked them off, thankful they were loose and as the golden glow of my power surrounded us, I slowly reached up to grasp his queue—
He ripped off my briefs, jerking me off my feet, his firm hold on my hair the only thing keeping me upright. Heart thudding, I sent another picture, praying this would work like the others as I tugged persuasively on his queue. Finally, he released me and I almost sagged with relief as he slid gracefully down to fall to his knees before me. I looked at him gazing up at me and my heart stuttered. The flames in his pupils were feathered with gold. I’d almost caught him in my Glamour.
My plan had worked better than I’d believed possible.
For a second I revelled in his worship . . . then, half-regretful, I blocked it.
Now for the next part.
I bent, using his queue to tug his head back and slapped my hand over the brand on his forehead. The magic in the spell felt slippery, like soft jelly. I grabbed it, panicking as it threatened to ooze out of my fingers. I gave it a small experimental pull; the body of the spell lifted away from Malik, but a forest of thin trailing threads – tentacles? – was still embedded inside his brain.
Eww, the thing was like some sort of horrible jellyfish.
Then some of the legs pulled out of him on their own, flicking round to sting my wrist. Intense pain shot up my arm and my hand jerked open. The spell disengaged, burrowing back inside Malik’s skull and disappearing. A pained grunt escaped his mouth, red flames eclipsing the gold in his pupils. He snarled, lips peeling away from his fangs as he readied to strike.
Crap. I was losing him.
I clasped his face, digging my fingers into his temples, frantically pouring my magic into him as I shouted more images into his mind. He growled low in his throat; the flames in his eyes flickered red, gold, red and then disappeared totally as his pupils, irises and whites all turned a brilliant gold. I stared transfixed as bloody tears ran down his face, and power rose around us like a red-gold mist. I bent lower, needing to place my lips on his, to drink down all that power, to take it into myself until it filled the hollow place inside me. But before our mouths touched, his cool hands touched my hips, slid up to my waist and, as he stood, he lifted me up—
And I flew back through the air to land with a jarring thud on the nearest table.
The pain and the heavy perfume of the roses next to my face brought me back to my senses. I stared at the ceiling, trembling as I pushed away the horrific thought that I’d been ready to consume Malik’s . . . what? Power? Soul? And gave thanks that he at least was still following the script of images I’d shoved into his head.
Hands manacled my ankles.
Now to get rid of that torturous spell.
I looked at him. He stood at the table edge staring adoringly at me from golden orbs.
He’d lost his shirt. I gaped. Not so much at his broad shoulders, or his lean, hard chest with its silky triangle of black hair, but . . .
I pushed myself up on my elbows.
It wasn’t just his shirt that was gone. All his clothes were gone. He was naked . . . Gorgeous . . . My eyes followed the silky black hair that shaded a line down his washboard stomach, all his muscles crisply defined beneath beautiful taut skin . . . skin that glowed a soft silver as if he’d somehow consumed the moon. I looked lower . . . all of him was—
Oh my gods! That wasn’t in the script!
He pulled me slowly towards him, his hands gliding like rough satin up my legs. My pulse turned erratic and instinctively I clutched at the tablecloth. But it and I slid unresistingly across the table until I was half lying, knees bent, legs dangling and Malik standing between them.
‘Well, Genevieve.’ He grinned: a feral, fanged slash. ‘This is how you wanted me, was it not?’
‘Um, sort of,’ I said, sitting up, bemused that he was talking and sounding like himself. He was trapped in my Glamour; he should be my willing, adoring slave, waiting for my every whim. So why wasn’t he?
‘Sort of?’ He raised an elegant brow. ‘Maybe you would prefer me like this.’ His grip on my knees tightened as he jerked me towards him. I yelped, surprised, clutching at his shoulders as his hands clamped high on my thighs, holding me teetering on the table’s edge.‘Is this close enough, Genevieve?’
I looked down; there was only a breath of air between us. My skin flushed, need and anticipation coiling tight inside me as the urge to wrap my legs around him and feel him thrust deep flashed in me like lightning; it had been too long since I’d last lost myself to pleasure. And this wasn’t some venom junkie; a stranger I’d picked up in Rosa’s body to satisfy my cravings, only to leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth . . . This was Malik.
A feeling hotter and sweeter than mere lust trembled inside me. I’d wanted him since I’d first seen him and that want had strengthened, shifting into something indefinable as my initial fear and distrust had dissipated. All it would take was one of us to move, and then—
I swallowed and raised my eyes to his. They were still gold with my Glamour . . . He might seem like he wasn’t my slave, but I wasn’t about to trust that, not when Glamouring anyone was akin to force. Shame mixed with yearning rolled through me.
This. Was. Not. Real.
‘I think that’s close enough,’ I said, though my voice held uncertainty instead of the dryness I’d been aiming for.
His mouth quirked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said, this time more firmly. ‘What I’m not sure about is how come you seem yourself again.’
His thumbs traced circles over my inner thighs, sparking desperate desire. ‘Ah, you wonder why haven’t I succumbed to your magic?’
Succumb! Gods, I so wanted to succumb, so wanted to pull him to me, to close that infinitesimal gap between us. ‘Yes.’
‘I told you once before, Genevieve, your magic is not powerful enough to hold one such as I, not even weakened as I am with this.’ He dipped his head to indicate the spell on his forehead. ‘But your magic does appear to be strong enough to keep it at bay. It is allowing me some respite from the need to fight it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘As does inducing me to taste the delights of your body.’
I inadvertently dug my fingers into the cool skin of his shoulders as an image filled my mind: we weren’t talking euphemisms here. I batted the thoughts away before they shattered my resolve. I was the one supposed to be doing the distracting, not him. And my distraction was working, even if it had been a rough, roller-coaster ride. And even if the ride had ended before the big finalé. Which was for the best, I told myself firmly, determinedly keeping my eyes on his face and ignoring both the frustration itching through my veins, and how tantalisingly close he was, almost brushing against me.
‘Right,’ I said, adopting a businesslike air. ‘If you hold still, I’ll have a look at the spell and see how to remove it.’ I lifted my hand only to have him catch my wrist.
‘I do not think that is wise,’ he said, mimicking my brisk tone. ‘Magic has an adverse effect on you.’
‘If I absorb it, yes,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m not going to do that.’
‘What are you going to do?’
His slightly too casual question rang a warning bell in me. He appeared fully in control, but I didn’t know enough about the spell to trust it
truly wasn’t still influencing him, albeit less than before. I decided to sidestep, and satisfy my curiosity at the same time. ‘First, I think you need to tell me why you’re shining.’
‘You are the one that is shining, Genevieve. Like the desert sun at noon.’
Despite his playful tone, a faint echo of sadness twisted in me. Did he miss the sun? I pushed the thought away. ‘I know I’m shining,’ I said. ‘I’m concerned about why you are. Is it something to do with the spell?’
‘The risk is too great for you to remove the spell.’
Okay, so he wasn’t going to answer. And whether his silvery moonlight glow was connected or not didn’t really matter. Time to bait a hook, see what I could catch. ‘I’ve got something that takes all the risk out.’ I grinned. ‘A magical turkey baster.’ Not that I could magic it up here from Leicester Square, but hey, he wasn’t to know that.
Emotion flickered in his eyes, eagerness, desperation, or both, though with my magic colouring them gold, it was hard to tell. ‘Do you have it in your bag?’
‘Well, it’s not stuck behind my ear, is it?’ I said, giving him an arch look.
Pain contorted Malik’s face. He dropped my arm and made a slashing gesture at my backpack. It lifted itself from where I’d dumped it and smashed into the wall at the far end of the room with a resounding crash.
Well, that confirmed my suspicions that Malik had some sort of kinetic power. And – I shot my crushed backpack and its scattered contents a resigned look – that confirmed my other suspicion. Malik wasn’t fully in control of Malik.
‘Genevieve. I order you—’
I grabbed his cock and squeezed. It had the desired effect.
He stopped speaking, a heavy groan of need cutting off whatever order he, or the Autarch using Malik as his mouthpiece, had been about to give me.
‘I knew there was a reason you got naked,’ I muttered, slapping my other hand on his forehead. This time when I seized the Jellyfish spell I was ready for its stingers, gritting my teeth as the pain arced though my body. Only my own determination and Malik’s hands clamped around my thighs held me in place. I panted through the pain, working my fingers into the jellyfish, caging the mass tightly in my hand. Another groan came from Malik, this one less needy, more agonised. I glanced down at the hand holding him . . .
The Shifting Price of Prey [4] Page 6